


Wool

by sloganeer



Series: 1, 2, 3, 4, tell me that you love me more [7]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anniversary, Domestic Bliss, Husbands, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 12:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19927915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloganeer/pseuds/sloganeer
Summary: David’s anniversary present was hidden in Patrick’s gym bag—wrapped in gold paper, then again in plastic, just to be sure no gym bag smells could penetrate. He was pretty sure David had already found it; his husband had been staring at him with soft smiles when he thought Patrick wasn’t looking.(Patrick was always looking.)-This is year 7.





	Wool

An August wedding was a good idea at the time. It was a quiet time for the store, with a lot of customers focused on back to school instead of redecorating. They made up the slump with the occasional tourist, but their big summer season was July. August was quiet, the weather was perfect, Patrick and David were married on a Saturday near the end of the month.

But sometimes it also meant that when Patrick woke up on the morning of his wedding anniversary, their bodies were sticky, their sheets were a mess, and not for any of the usual fun reasons.

“Ugh,” Patrick said, flinging the bed linen to the floor, peeling himself away from David’s sweat-slicked skin.

“Why does the sky hate us?” David groaned. He was the first off the bed, skimming his shorts down and heading towards the shower. He couldn’t even wait for Patrick.

Still, summer in Schitt’s Creek was nothing like summer in Toronto. Patrick was happy to be away from the city, where the skyscrapers trapped the hot air and baked the sidewalks. Maybe tonight, they’d skip the dinner party and just drive, find an empty field and a cool breeze, make love in the lavender. 

Patrick chuckled. He’d make the suggestion anyway, just to hear David’s pained reaction. The grousing would keep his husband busy all week.

He stripped their bed and added the bundle to the laundry basket. He pulled the knots out of his hair. David didn’t let him shampoo every day—apparently it was bad for something—but in this heat, Patrick always felt greasy. He listened to the shower at the end of the hall. If he snuck in there early, he could catch David before he got started on his more complicated routines. Patrick wasn’t allowed to interrupt the complicated routines.

“Took you long enough,” David said, as Patrick slid the shower curtain back. “I was ready to give up on you and do my hair mask.”

“Let me do you instead.”

“You’re the fucking worst.” David took Patrick’s face between his hands, hair slicked back, lips dripping wet, annoyed, but beautiful.

They passed their kisses between them, through the water and the warmth. Patrick reached down to tug on David’s cock, petting—teasing, David would say, but Patrick never teased. He meant every touch; he accomplished every plan.

“Save it,” David said, pulling back, neither of them eager, but it was the right choice. “I don’t get as many chances at this as I used to.”

“All right, old man. Don’t slip and fall.”

Patrick grabbed his shampoo, enjoying David’s sputtering indignation and using it to sneak in a wash. He was clean and out of the shower before David, and he’d get a good start on his list of chores before David joined him downstairs, too.

He loved their house so much, their space. Patrick took the recycling out to the bins in the garage, then wandered around to the backyard, surveying the gardens and making note of what needed doing (weeding, always). He snuck a peek at the barbecue, still caked with last night’s ribs sauce, so the grills came off and went into a basin of soapy water to soak. He swept the needles off the deck. He put up the umbrella. He wiped down the table, started the coffee, and got breakfast going so they could eat outside in the sun.

David’s anniversary present was hidden in Patrick’s gym bag—wrapped in gold paper, then again in plastic, just to be sure no gym bag smells could penetrate. He was pretty sure David had already found it; his husband had been staring at him with soft smiles when he thought Patrick wasn’t looking. 

(Patrick was always looking.)

He was pretty sure David had many guesses, but Patrick knew none of them were correct. He felt good about this gift. He felt smug, still, months after the idea had come to him.

His husband came downstairs in bare feet and a silk robe. He touched Patrick’s shoulder and landed on his hip, leaning into him and demanding, without a single word, Patrick’s attention. Patrick lowered the heat on their eggs and luxuriated in the feel, the smells, the sound of his husband against his mouth.

“Go find your present and wait for me outside,” Patrick told him.

David bit his lip, coy and so predictable. He nodded and left Patrick to finish cooking.

The golden package was out of its plastic bag and settled in David’s lap when Patrick carried their breakfast tray out to the deck. David watched his every movement, catching his eyes to ask for permission to unwrap it. 

“It’s all yours,” Patrick said. He stayed standing to pour the coffee (David still took two creams, but no sugar anymore) and serve up half an omelette each with hashbrowns and fresh farmers sausage. 

If one merely saw David Rose, they might expect he was the kind of person to carefully unwrap a present, slide a finger under the tape to avoid tearing the paper, fold it up and set it aside for later. Patrick had once expected this, too, and the first few presents he gave to David were all in gift bags, to make things easier on the both of them.

But those people didn’t get to see the joy in David’s eyes when he was allowed to mess something up, when David gave himself the permission to be unruly and out of sorts. He ripped through the golden paper and tossed pieces on the ground. (Patrick would have to sweep again.)

“It’s a sweater,” David said. He unfolded the arms. “It’s my sweater.”

“I know.”

“I mean, Patrick, this is literally my sweater. I bought this.”

He nodded, grinned, laughed. “I know.”

“You’re can’t give me a present I paid for with my own money!” David flailed at him. Patrick pushed the coffee mug closer. 

“David, we have two different joint accounts, and I manage both of them. You don’t have your own money.”

“You, Patrick Brewer, are a dirty re-gifter.” He sulked. He sipped his coffee and stared out at the orchard, the wool sweater an accusatory lump in his lap.

“And you, David Rose, have never looked so beautiful as when you walked into the Café wearing that sweater with a lightning bolt flashing across your chest.”

He was blushing now, Patrick could see. Even shaded under the umbrella, his husband was blushing with that memory.

“I knew I was right,” Patrick told him, “as soon as you walked in the door.”

David tried to hide his smile with his mug, but Patrick never missed a thing, not a thing between them for almost 10 years now. David picked up a fork and ate his omelette. He was quiet for a while longer, but Patrick saw his other hand in his lap, tangled up with the arm of his lightning bolt sweater.


End file.
